


Until We Find Each Other

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lizzington - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-07-29 15:22:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16266944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: "I couldn't face you when you woke up. I wasn't sure what I wanted to say to you.""How about now? What would you like to say to me now?"He closes his eyes. Holds his breath."I'm still trying to figure that out, Red."





	1. I Didn't Leave

**Author's Note:**

> Here we finally are. I had planned on uploading this sooner but then life and health and vacation happened and somehow it got pushed back. Hopefully it will still be enjoyable. 
> 
> This fic takes place after Red gets shot in season 2. If you have read my stories before, you know I’m not usually one to delve deep into the mythology and that won’t change here. I take the shooting as a starting point and move on from there, until they find each other. Enjoy!

_You should have told me._

The words echo loudly, reverberate through his conscience, leave their mark where it hurts. He had meant to, he had meant to tell her countless, endless times, the circumstances never good enough and his doubts ever so eager to stop him, aware that he couldn't come out on the other side unscathed, the small device much too powerful for consolation. The truth was, he knew better than telling her the full story. The truth was, he would lose her either way.

_Why didn't you tell me?_

For fear that she wouldn't let him explain, for fear that everything they had so tentatively constructed would come crashing down in tragedy, with her name on his tongue and the taste of it like something bitter, something he had lost. She hadn't looked angry or furious, no, she had looked heartbroken and the bullet that had punctured his chest in the aftermath had been strangely tolerable. Now that he comes to think of it, the timing was impeccable.

And then, the blood. Crimson and morbid on her fingers. And then, her hands. Pressed to his heart like a lifeline.

She had held on to him for as long as she could, solace replacing the ache that had overwhelmed him, his gaze heavy with apologies, his voice weak and his plea desperate.

_Don't leave. Please._

When he had woken up hours later, she was gone.

* * *

The days pass slowly without her.

He doesn't know where she is. When she'll be back.

 _Some time off_ , that's what they tell him without specifying the reasons. He knows better than to call her, tries to silence his growing impatience. She deserves some distance after all that's occurred.

The wound pains him, pulsates at the very thought of her. It hadn't been his intention to betray her, to hide whatever details she deserved to know. He tells himself he kept her in the dark for her own protection. Some nights he almost believes it. Some nights he can't bear the thought of never seeing her again.

He's well-acquainted with it, the loss, the longing, the silent part of him begging her to stay pounding in his lungs.

She always did, in the end. Always chose him. Returned to him in a cab with nothing but determination and challenge in her eyes. Saved him from another bullet while cold steel pressed into the back of his head.

And now, her hands. On his heart. A matter of life and death.

It couldn't have been enough.

She's made her choice.

* * *

He doesn't check the screen when the phone rings. It must be around midnight and he feels exhausted, the bandages stretching across his skin and every position uncomfortable, and he doesn't think much of it when he answers, his mind wandering between dream and reality.

"Hello?"

"Hi."

"Lizzie?"

"Yes."

He's wide awake suddenly.

"Where are you?"

"Gone for a short while."

He recalls a similar response, the roles reversed. _Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing._ He misses her.

"Are you alright?"

"Shouldn't I be the one asking that question? You got shot, Red. The last time I saw you, you were unconscious and frighteningly pale."

"I'm sorry you had to witness that."

"So am I."

"I'm sorry for many things."

There's silence at the other end of the line. It's awkward and foreign, like something they had left behind a long time ago. A newly drawn line in the sand.

"Lizzie, I—"

"So, are you alright? How's your injury?"

He's grateful for the interruption.

"Gradually healing." He doesn't tell her that his recovery is taking longer than expected. That certain movements still send a sharp pain down his arm.

"Good. That's good. And physical therapy?"

"A walk in the park. Quite literally." He imagines her smiling, indulges in self-flattery. There's so much he wants to tell her, so many questions he doesn't dare to voice, _come back, Lizzie_ , that's all he can hear now,  _come back,_ but he doesn't open his mouth. The room is dark. Her voice clear.

"I should let you get some rest," she tells him and he wishes he could keep their conversation going until sunrise.

"Yes, I suppose rest is what I need." It's a lie, a blatant one at that. He needs to explain his side of the story. He needs to know she's safe. He needs courage. But it's not about him. It's about her. "Thank you for calling, Lizzie."

"I didn't leave, you know."

"What?"

"I didn't leave. Not right away. I stayed when they cut you open to extract the bullet. I stayed after I had washed your blood off my hands. I stayed when they pushed you into a separate unit after the surgery. I stayed through all of that. But I couldn't face you when you woke up. I wasn't sure what I wanted to say to you."

"How about now? What would you like to say to me now?"

He closes his eyes. Holds his breath.

"I'm still trying to figure that out, Red."

"Will you let me know once you do?"

"Yes. Yes, I think I can do that."

The line disconnects before he can utter a response and it's quiet now, lonely, and he wonders if she hung up on purpose or if the connection had failed them altogether. He wonders if it matters.

She  _did_  call. She _did_  stay. And there's hope in that and maybe, maybe tonight sleep will come to him after all. Maybe tonight the pain will be forgiving.

He puts the phone back on the nightstand and faces the other direction.

He doesn't notice the screen lighting up one last time.

He doesn't realize she chooses him, still.

_Goodnight, Red._


	2. Tired Of Things That Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments. I hope you enjoy this one as well. Let me know :)

"Hello?"

"Hey. Is this a bad time?"

 _Never. To talk to you, never._  "Absolutely not. I'm glad you decided to call again, Lizzie."

"I wasn't sure if you were busy."

"There's no such thing for me these days."

"Busy with being told by Dembe to walk another round?"

"Dembe is fast asleep. I also might have locked my door as a precaution."

"I doubt that's true."

"That he's fast asleep?"

"That you locked your door, Red."

"You'd be right. But I've been contemplating it."

"He only wants to help you."

"And I appreciate the effort even though this recovery has been sheer agony."

"You've always had a flair for the dramatic."

"Is this a reference to my lamentations or the bullet aimed at my chest?"

"Both. Though I'm sure you'll be good as new eventually."

" _Eventually_  can't come soon enough." He makes himself comfortable, hopes the conversation will last longer than last night. "You're still gone, I assume? Out of Washington?"

"I needed some space."

"Would you like to talk about what happened?"

"I'd rather not. Not yet."

"Then what would you like to talk about, Lizzie?"

"Are you reading? To pass the time?"

"Yes."

"Read me something. Whatever is on your nightstand."

He turns to check the stack next to him, his eyes moving from one title to the next until he opts for the volume on the bottom and pulls it out from underneath, the sudden sting in his shoulder making him cringe. He's glad she can't see him.

"What am I in for, Red?"

" _The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg_."

He lets chance make its pick, flips the book open somewhere in the middle, imagines her there beside him as his eyes follow the words on the page.

 _Home Thoughts_. He almost smiles.

Then, he begins.

"The sea rocks have a green moss.  
The pine rocks have red berries.  
I have memories of you."

He wonders what she's thinking.

"Speak to me of how you miss me.  
Tell me the hours go long and slow."

What she's feeling.

"Speak to me of the drag on your heart,  
The iron drag of the long days."

What she will say to him once she's ready.

"I know hours empty as a beggar's tin cup on a rainy day,  
empty as a soldier's sleeve with an arm lost."

He wonders if she can sense his own confessions hidden somewhere between the lines.

"Speak to me."

Like a plea.

She remains silent for a little while, lets his voice fill the distance between them.

"Lizzie?"

She shakes her head.

"It always sounds so simple, doesn't it? _Speak to me_. It's never that simple."

"You're speaking to me right now. Do you find it difficult?"

"Not particularly. It's easier, talking on the phone."

"Because you don't have to face me?"

"I'd be lying if I said that wasn't part of it."

If her mind worked similarly to his own, she could still see him. A reflection in the dark.

"Will you answer me one question, Lizzie?"

"I can try."

"What made you leave?"

She won't lie to him.

"Fear."

"Of another attack? Another shot fired?"

"Ironically, no. Something much more elusive."

"I don't think I understand."

"You will, Red.  _Eventually_."

Eventually, he will understand that her entire world had shattered into pieces that day. That everything she had let herself believe, everything she had finally admitted to herself, seemed to be based on a lie. Eventually, he will understand that it was her own feelings that had scared her the most, the implication that every look, every touch, every embrace had merely been a piece in a larger puzzle. A deception, nothing more. Means to an end.

Eventually, she will forget the ache in her chest as she turned away from him and a bullet found its target.

"How about another?" she deflects after a brief moment.

"Another what?"

"Poem, Red."

"Oh, of course."

He can see it out of the corner of his eye, the book resting on the pillow next to him, but he stays perfectly still. There's something else he'd like to tell her. When he opens his mouth, his voice is calm and soothing.

"You are tired, I think,  
Of the always puzzle of living and doing,  
And so am I.  
Come with me, then,  
And we'll leave it far and far away…only you and I."

She remembers this one, she remembers it well, listens intently to every line, can feel the grief rising in her heart, the sensation so familiar now, growing and growing and growing.

"…and are a little tired now—"

"— _tired of things that break._ " The words quietly leaving her lips, their meaning unmistakable. "That wasn't Sandburg, was it?"

"No. No, it wasn't."

She can hear him breathe and she wonders if there's something else he wants to say to her or if he will finish the poem,  _but I come with a dream in my eyes tonight_ , or if he will offer his own interpretation or if he will simply tell her that they're  _not_  broken and that even exhaustion will fade and that tomorrow there'll be another day and that things will get easier and that life isn't as fragile as it seems.

But he doesn't voice any of these thoughts. She knows they're both past making promises they can't keep.

The phone in her hand feels heavy suddenly.

"It's late. I should go."

"Will you call again?"

"Yes, I could."

"Tomorrow?"

"If you'd like me to."

"I'd like you to."

"One condition."

"Which would be?"

"You keep your door unlocked. You do what Dembe tells you to in the morning."

"Look at you, camel trading like a bedouin."

"Some things never change. Goodnight, Red."

She doesn't wait for his response when she hangs up.

* * *

Much later that night, when the pain returns with some force, he turns on the light and reopens the book. Softly, he repeats the lines like a secret.

 _I have memories of you_.

He could fill volumes with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might remember a little fic called "Sweet Illusions" and a bit about e.e. cummings. Only felt right to reference another of his poems.


End file.
